


Glass Heart Hymn

by rebelise



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blood and Violence, Gen, Mild Gore, Takodana/the Resistance is Alexandria, The Walking Dead AU, ben has done some very bad things before the outbreak, snoke is the governor and the First Order is Woodbury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 10:30:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17424185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelise/pseuds/rebelise
Summary: Rey's group disbands after walkers overrun their haven, an isolated farm. But before long, she finds herself at the mercy of a powerful group of survivors called the First Order. One of the leaders seems to have taken her under his wing.





	Glass Heart Hymn

**Author's Note:**

> The title is based on the song of the same name by Paper Route.  
> well, well, well. I'm starting yet another WIP. But this one has been seriously eating at me for a very long time and I had to get it out of my system. So, have a Walking Dead AU. This is loosely based on the third and fourth season of TWD, with the Governor and Woodbury, except this time it's the Supreme Leader and the First Order lol, and there's Takodana of which Leia Organa is the "mayor", equivalent to the setup in Alexandria. It's been a while since I saw the series, but this story just kept begging to be written. Soooo, sorry if ya'll are waiting for updates to the other stories. But I couldn't wait. I'm so impatient :/

The last thing Rey remembers is running. Running so hard and fast her knees might splinter and all she’s conscious of is her feet pounding down again and again, thin soles of her boots offering scant protection from the coarse ground. But there’s no pain, not really. Not when you’re running for your life, having already narrowly evaded the tear of a walker’s teeth when it fell on top of her, jerking and writhing. She runs, and she runs, at some point runs right into a fence. _That_ slows her down, knocking the breath out of her lungs, pain blossoming across her abdomen, and it takes a few minutes longer than she’s comfortable with to recover, to start up again, barely managing to clamber up and over the rickety slats. She can barely see five feet in front of her and it’s so dark the trees look like black lumps against the empty sky.

She doesn’t want to turn around, and see the farm, her last refuge, burning up, that eerie glow that had bathed the staggering, invading figures, the way a bonfire would a huge outdoor party. But this is hell, pure hell, and Rey wonders if she’s dead, her muscle memory kicking in and propelling her on, and on, and on, until she stumbles and then crashes to the ground. She’s crying silently even as she gasps and gulps and claws at the dirt under her. That’s it. That’s all she knows before her brain just decides to _quit_ and fucking blacks out.

The sensation of getting jolted and rocked is the first thing she notices as she slowly wakes up. Her eyes burn so she can’t stand to open them, just lies there, on a hard, smooth surface, something soft propping up her head. She scrabbles to sit up at once, forcing herself to crack open her eyelids, to see _what the bloody hell—_ somebody pushes her head back down onto the soft lump and she twitches, her pulse spiking wildly.

“Keep still,” a disembodied voice warns her. The hand practically spans the width of her head, could easily crush her skull. But it’s gentle, albeit firm, applying steady pressure to remind her to not move. Everything is fuzzy and surreal, and Rey tries to speak but her throat might as well be full of sand, good for nothing but incoherent gargling sounds. The voice shushes her, and Rey obeys, clamping her jaw shut and just trying to figure out why it feels like she’s moving—is she in a vehicle? It’s frustrating, to be temporarily blind and mute and paralyzed, exhaustion as effective as a straight jacket. Something cool and metallic nudges at her lips and Rey grunts, turning her head away.

“Drink,” that voice again—floating around and around her like a whirlpool, deep and smooth, commanding but still somehow…well, she obeys it, and lets her lips fall open for cold liquid to splash down her tongue. That hand slides over her head to cup the back of her head, lift her up a tiny bit so she won’t choke. It glides down her throat like a path of pure heaven and Rey gulps it down greedily until the bottle moves away from her lips. Hydrating her parched mouth feels so good that it sends her straight back into that coma. Everything goes black again and she welcomes it cheerfully.

 

__________

 

 

“We can take them out easy, no big deal,” Phasma runs a pale hand through her shock of platinum blonde hair, flashing a smirk around the car of her fellow supply-runners. “Bet the former inhabitants are long gone, couldn’t take the heat.”

Hux is staring down at the farm that is just short of being overrun, his forehead wrinkled with a considering frown. Probably strategizing, mapping out the risks, the pros and cons of this venture. Ben grunts, shifting in his cramped seat in the back of the truck. He’s only here because Snoke’s trying to punish him—for “talking back” at the last town hall meeting.

It’s just, he thinks it would be a waste of resources and possibly lives if they try to take out Takodana, the well-fortified neighborhood where…Leia and Han are, along with a lucky group of survivors. Why not stay in their own lane, let them be? Snoke had glared at him in a way that would’ve made Mitaka shit his pants, but Ben just looked back, determined to stand his ground. Funny, because he’d certainly let Snoke puppeteer him up until this point. Sometimes, enough is enough.

“What do you think this is, some fucking video game?” Snoke had barked, his gnarled face uglier than usual. People called him a walker behind his back, because he’s as mangled as one, the scar indenting his face a bit nightmarish. “We’re here to survive, not play the fucking suburban neighbors, Ren.” That’s right, Ben is Kylo Ren now. But secretly he thinks of himself as Benjamin, in the dead of night, when he thinks of his mother and father and how before all of this started, he’d done something so horrible that it sears him to recall. What about now? Now that the world’s gone to shit, and surviving is all that matters? He’s being the biggest fucking dick, hanging onto all the shame and fury and self-hatred, when he could’ve reunited with them by now. Like they’d ever want to see him again, even now. Even after the world ended.

Snoke promptly put him in his place. Assigned him to go on the next supply run, though it’s been forever since Ben’s left the walls of the town, because it’s beneath him as the favorite of Supreme Leader. It’s ridiculous, that Snoke makes everyone call him this. But forming a safe, structured community in the middle of hell on earth is something that earns you loyalty from people, from those you help to survive, who you pull from the abyss.

So, everyone calls him the dramatic-ass title of “Supreme Leader” and everybody’s happy. They’re alive, well-fed, they have running water and electricity, you name it. So, they’ll gladly call Snoke Supreme leader. It’s a power trip, probably, but everyone seems to think that it’s worth it, to humor the towering man with half of his face caved in, who seems to know the ins and outs of this deadly new life.

Maybe there’s a cultish feel to it. A sense of being trapped. Is that a thing, to feel trapped in safety?

Anyways, Snoke put him on supply run duty with Hux, who he hates, and Mitaka, a little piss-ant of a guy whose light on his feet and surprisingly good at these missions. And Phasma, the woman of Amazonian build, who looks like she was born with a machine gun in her hand.

“Maybe this will remind you that this isn’t a fucking _game_. We can’t waste our time _feeling bad_. That group at Takodana have been taking resources we need at every. Single. Turn.” Snoke had sighed, sounding for all the world like a grandfather weary of scolding a child. His voice was soft, eerily so, but Ben nodded, even as he thought of _their_ faces and what they’d be doing over there.

But he can’t go back now. Not after what he did before. Before the outbreak.

No, don’t think of that.

So now, here he is, the minutes ticking by as Hux, Mitaka, and Phasma plot out their strategy for this farm, walkers dragging lopsided, mangled limbs as they mill about the silent grounds. No sign of anybody _alive_. Phasma carries two machetes strapped to her back, Hux two large steak knives, and Mitaka a pistol and a laughably small blade, likely because his hands are so small.

They quietly climb out of the car and pair off, circling around the perimeters of the farmhouse and a charred, smoking barn before moving in and slashing at the undead right and left. It doesn’t take long, and they don’t have any need to use a bullet—doing so would probably attract more walkers, which they _do not_ want. None of the walkers made it into the house so once they get the yard and surrounding grounds clear, it’s pretty simple and straightforward, plowing indoors and stuffing knapsacks full of goods from the cabinets.

They even laugh and quip a little as they plunder the house of its best goods. They keep alert moving back and forth from the truck to the house, but they’re in the clear, and soon they’ve stocked the bed of the trunk with an ample amount of goods that will make people back home cheer. Ben doesn’t say much to his comrades, but they don’t seem particularly keen to hear from him either. He knows Hux hates his guts since Ben humiliated him once before in front of Snoke, and Phasma hates him for humiliating Hux. And Mitaka? Well, Mitaka is a piss-ant, so Ben doesn’t care.

He’s halfway between the house and truck, kneeling to retie his army fatigue boots when he hears a whinny off somewhere in the distance, and looks up. Out beyond the fence of the farmyard he sees a sorrel mare, probably mourning the loss of its stable, its face highlighted by a white streak down its muzzle.

He snorts, watching it peer about alertly, before turning its head in his direction. Watching him? Does it think he’s a walker, one of the dead? Jesus, it’s a beautiful creature, flanks rippling even beneath spattered mud on its coat. Thin, but graceful and elegant, the arch of its neck proud.

Ben can’t help but smile slightly, his eyes following the horse’s careful movements. Something in him yearns to get closer, to pet it. Random, he knows, but he can hear Hux, Phasma, and Mitaka, crowing about a stash of liquor they discovered, and the horse isn’t far. There’s not a walker in sight save for the ones littering the lawn like mutilated Halloween decorations, stab wounds in their skulls.

So, he slowly, carefully walks towards the horse. It whinnies nervously, shifting backwards, and Ben pauses. “It’s alright,” he whispers, as memories of childhood horseback riding lessons flit through his mind. His mother had made him, but he knew it was because she refused to be outdone by her opponent, whose kid played the fucking violin, rode English horseback, and spoke ten different languages probably.

No, don’t think of that. _No good to bring up the past. It’s dead now. All of that’s dead._

When he’s no more than five yards from the horse, it bolts, dirty mane pluming out behind it. For some reason, Ben’s heart sinks and he keeps walking after it. It races to the edge of the tree-line. He shouldn’t follow it. He shouldn’t go within those trees. But something drives him to keep walking. To keep following. He doesn’t hear any snarls or growls, no plodding, uneven footsteps. He’s safe. Hux, Phasma, and Mitaka are probably getting sloshed, since once they get back to the First Order, they’ll have to give everything up to the _storeroom._

The horse keeps startling and trotting further and further away from Ben till it’s beneath the canopy of the thick forest. Ben glances over his shoulder towards the farmhouse. If they leave, they’ll radio him so he can head back. They’d probably rather leave him out here, but Snoke would release hell on them if they did that.

Ben keeps one hand on his walkie, the other on the hilt of his knife. He walks another yard, and freezes. For the first time he forgets about the horse, his eyes falling to something on the ground. A crumpled heap, thin and covered in grime. He wraps his hand around his knife, waiting for the figure to stir. Takes a step closer. The figure’s so still. Dead. His grip tightens on his weapon and he keeps walking. As he nears it, he makes out tangled brown hair flopped over this figure’s face. The thin arms twisted around the narrow torso are smeared with drying mud, and one of the legs is bent at an unnatural angle. Has to be a walker.

Then, it moans, causing him to start. If Hux was here, he’d mock him for it. Ben considers just turning around, leaving it be. But the longer he stares at the form, small and emaciated, filthy, the more strongly he considers putting it out of its misery. It’s not like it _knows_ that it’s in misery, in an eternal state of limbo, with unseeing eyes and endless hunger. But all the same…it’s helpless, and he could easily overpower it if need be.

So, he slowly kneels behind it, his thigh mere inches from the protruding shoulder blade poking beneath a ragged, yellow shirt. The shirt’s so dirty that it could pass for brown. He studies the nape of the neck beneath matted brown hair, knob of the spine painfully obvious beneath dirt-darkened skin—he studies this far longer than he should. And then something clicks in his mind. It’s a female. And—she’s  _breathing_.

So slowly he might as well be a sloth, he reaches out to cup her bony shoulder. He tugs. She’s breathing deeply. She’s not dead…she’s _asleep_. Or knocked out. Ben lets out a shaky, surprised gasp, as he tugs again. Now she flops on her back, and he can see her face. Beneath the filth, he can see delicate features. Her lashes flutter on the tops of her fine cheekbones.

She’s still alive. Her skin’s cool—no fever, no bite.

He makes sure, cautiously, gingerly lifting the hem of her shirt slightly. Her clothes show no signs of blood save for some scratches she probably got from her fall.

Ben makes a decision in that moment—Snoke has always said he’s far, far too impulsive. But now, he doesn’t care. He tucks one hand under her fragile neck, the other beneath the slight curve of her ass, and lifts. Light as a feather. He easily scoops her up against his chest, an immediate sense of protectiveness flooding him. He brushes the thought away and turns on his heel, completely forgetting the horse as he carries this scrawny, scrappy survivor back to the truck.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspire me with comments and kudos ;)   
> you can also find me here:  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/rebelise96)  
> [NSFW twitter](https://twitter.com/rebelisehush)  
> [tumblr](https://rebelise.tumblr.com)  
> 


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